Back in November 2025, about a week after I got out of hospital, visitors started queuing round the block to “see how I was”. At the time I was feeling less like a person and more like one of those fish in the dentist’s tank in Finding Nemo.
I half expected someone to tap the glass while I drifted slowly past and whisper, “Look – that one’s the recovering one.” Meanwhile I’m just hovering there thinking, just keep swimming… just keep swimming…
Determined to prove I was once again a functioning member of society I agreed to “go down the pub” to continue “being observed”. My brain was running on dial-up, but everyone else seemed keen on polite conversation, so, in a burst of catastrophically misplaced people-pleasing, I went along with the plan.
And there, during an average pub lunch, that’s where IT happened.
“The Wrong Conversation” lit up in my head like a neon sign. Before I could stop it, out it came. It was out there. It had legs. And worse still, I HADN’T EVEN NOTICED. Reaction from the table was minimal, only furthering my misplaced sense of pride that my public “appearance” was going swimmingly. I would have patted myself on the back, but my stitches had made it abundantly clear that any attempt at a twisting motion would not be tolerated.
I didn’t see the tumbleweed speeding past the table, or the crow who flew in, ordered a packet of pork scratchings and left just as quickly. Surely once the lights started to flicker and the entire pub went up in flames I should have suspected something was “up”?
But I just didn’t, OK? I didn’t even notice that someone at the table was giving me vibes like I’d just strangled their budgie.
Alas, I soon discovered that “alleged budgie strangling” had not been my only offence that day. Apparently, by merely opening my mouth, I had managed to press the large red button marked “Reveal Sinister Master Plan.” I stood exposed like some low-rent Dr Evil, quietly plotting a grand Machiavellian scheme aimed at the downfall – or, if schedules were tight, at least the moderate inconvenience – of an entirely innocent individual.
DOOF… DOOF… DOOF… DOOF… DOOOF… DUDUDUDU…
Low rent? Harsh but fair.
Plotting? Wildly optimistic.
Master plan? No chance.
In the days after surgery, I could barely string together a coherent sentence, let alone mastermind anyone’s downfall. My most ambitious scheme was putting on matching socks without needing a lie-down afterwards. And frankly that was pushing it.
I’m now 4 months into my recovery and as it turns out, it’s been far less of a graceful comeback and more of a slightly wobbly comedy tour. One minute you’re embracing all the positives, like getting dressed and being allowed out of the house alone, the next, you’ve accidentally launched a conversational nuclear warhead and are left wondering how on earth that happened.
Messy. Awkward. Ridiculous.
But it’s also oddly impressive. After all, if you can survive an 8-hour surgery, a burning pub and being mistaken for a budget-Bond-villain in the same week, you’re probably doing alright.
So don’t be too harsh on yourself, OK?
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